Peggie (or Sex With a Very Large Woman)

During my twenties and thirties, it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet.

I’d prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from
the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of
female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come
to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my
writing.

Okay?

Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when
you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and
physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Warren
Beatty’s. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim — and
with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision — I’d obviously set
my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that
even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective,
and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine
will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I’d probably have been at it
much longer.

Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I’m forced to concede that
my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching
less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn’t entirely wasted.
Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very
practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn’t as
comprehensive as I’d have wished (variations on the theme of plainness
are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole
Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), the mental
snapshots I’ve kept of the women I was able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to ”Jugs.”

And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.

Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot
was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who’d just days before —
and for the first time — come to New York from the Midwest on a
month-long vacation.

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I
heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart — like a wooden
match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word
”humongous” could accurately depict — a female at least a foot taller
than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her
appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and
reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the
opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross
gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn’t yet scored.

In a brief conversation — during which it occurred to me that she’d
be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds — Peggie told me
she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career
chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it
offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high
school production of ”Grease,” and that her parents had tragically
expired in a suicide pact just months after her birth.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.

”That’s it,” he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. ”Right there — that dude. That’s the definition of drunk.”)

At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first
thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a
package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she
retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don’t recall) a
container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size
tub of Velveeta.

Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.

Now it’s not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but the more
appropriate musical accompaniment to the night’s activities would have
been the theme from ”Raiders of the Lost Ark.” The thing was — and my
insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was
definitely a contributing factor — I could not for the life of me find
Peggie’s vulva. I’d heard that this was a common occurrence with very
fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it
still took a lot longer than I would have expected. Simply put: Peggie’s
body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the
field of hazards and challenges it presented. I’m speaking of the
twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the
amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my
hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A
dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an
extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not
quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study.
You wouldn’t believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I
came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I’d
located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that
I’d inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely
perspiring epidermis. What’s more, I realized, when I looked up, that I
was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie’s
anatomy.

You’re thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and
ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about
to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents
of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in
volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its
source. Reasonably confident that I’d located Peggie’s stomach, I
paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a
compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish
my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked
by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I
was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to
crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too
long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed
in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of
accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment
of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of
exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would
certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After
effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was
jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the
astonishing power of Peggie’s pelvic motion. It was really
disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had
to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn’t at
all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with
my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and
proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I
managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like
clinging to a wet and rising hot air balloon, those final seconds were
every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.

In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless
never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of
my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of
chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of
the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I
am in it. That’s the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left
ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and
returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York
now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could
possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she’d suggest that we get
together again, I was enormously relieved by and immediately supportive
of her decision.

As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was
maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was
thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to
prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I’ll never know
just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or
the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her mind
was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.